Chapter 7 - Continued

 Hello, all... here is a preview of a continuation on chapter seven. a glimpse into the final hours of Alex. I hope you enjoy, and more to come. Editing and new chapters are coming up quickly. bless your little hearts. later ~b

 Chapt. #7 cont'd -

I heard the bathroom's linen closet door open, and it was then a jarring spasm strummed my spine much like a prickly handed harpist would harmonize to a grisly orchestra of sorts. The distinct pains shot through me and froze me cold and listless as I listened to his clothes swish to the bottom of the hamper. As he removed his wedding ring it hit the floor, 'Cling, clang, cling, cling!' My nerves so piqued at the time, it sounded as though a thunderous clang had echoed against my bathroom walls.

Carefully I peered around the corner and caught Alex trimming his goatee in the bathroom's vanity mirror. Once I realized how close he really was, my breath became shallow and quickened. As I slowly shifted myself back toward the wall, Alex turned on the shower and then returned his gaze to the vanity mirror inspecting his aged complexion. A soft rush of plunging droplets hit the porcelain tub, and filled the room with a light cloud of steam and a calming hush of cascading water funneled through the drain. The moist air consumed the bathroom's sparse space within seconds and its wetness pierced my then distressed lungs.

I tried to focus on my next seemingly impossible task, as I attempted to tighten my clammy palms around the knife's slippery rubber grip. Fear had struck a lightning bolt of trepidation through me and left me frozen in a momentary spell of panic. I attempted to hush my quickened breaths. Then it just happened, once I tightened my grip on the knife's handle I hastily lunged forward. Abruptly I hit the adjacent wall jarring my naked body and then suddenly, before I knew it...there I was, directly in his view.

Once Alex looked over at me, he appeared baffled with his bushy untamed eyebrows angled upward with a toothbrush hanging from the side of his mouth. You'd think, at that very moment, my bare quivering frame would have made me feel the most vulnerable I had ever felt. However, at that moment, it was in fact my fear of failure. My fear of failing a task that could not be abandoned. My reluctant leap that thrust me forward, revealed my truest intentions...there was no turning back.

We stood amongst the steamy bathroom fog that was gradually lifting as I intently stared into his eyes. When his eyes stared back into mine, I could sense their disbelief and betrayal; I recognized the look because I had felt the same for far too long. At that very moment, I had not expected my sentiment to be sheer joy yet it enraptured me. It made me feel like I had lost all control, and yet there I stood, proudly grinning.

He stood before me, mouth agape, when I hastily lunged forward cutting the thick air with the blade's razor sharp tip. Only my momentary hesitation gave him time to react as he continued to leap back from my failed attempts. Foolishly, I had abandoned my original plan to attack from behind,and for that I would pay the price.

He began to yell as I watched him jump back from the knife's edge, “What the fuck are you doing, Mira? You really think you are going to get away with this?!”

I didn't answer him, I continued to lunge forward with wide desperate swings, my arms wildly flailed, and my body quickly advanced toward his. With a pitiful sense of determination, he spat his toothbrush onto the floor and stood obstinately before the knife's point as it thrust straight toward his rotund gut. Impulsively, he grabbed the blade with both of his hands, cinching the blade with the meaty flesh of his bare palms. Blood began to drip from his grasp as he stood clasping its edge. His gaze shifted to the wall directly behind me, his eyes rolled back and seemed to touch the back of his brain. With his teeth tightly clenched, his eyes swiftly widened with a furious rancor. Instantly, he was a man who had become completely unhinged.

With his teeth clenched and bursts of mint scented saliva spewing from his lips, he finally met his eyes with mine when he said, “You sick twisted bitch, is this how you are planning on killing me? You better have something better planned than just a knife. You've got to be kidding me! You think you're gonna be the new sheriff in town now?! Is that why you want to get rid of me?! You got it licked around here, you dumb bitch!”

I continued to struggle as I attempted to tear the knife's razor sharp blade from his grasp. As the blood continued to pour from his wounds, his ferocious tenacity shocked me. Certainly by now his palm's searing lacerations were unbearably painful, but despite the pain he continued with incantations of profanity; all while grasping that blade. There seemed to be no sight of his waving white flag.

With his unflinching eyes, and his relentless grasp he pulled me closer toward him and said, “You think this hurts me, you bitch? You just wait till I put it straight through your stomach?! I will gut you like a pig! You are nothing but a pig. A dirty rotten pig! You got that?!”

Just then I noticed at the base of the knife, just above where his hands were clasped, his blood oozed and pooled along the grip like a thick burgundy jelly. The blood gradually pushed up between his fingers, dripped between his hairy toes and slowly pooled onto the floor beneath him.

For what seemed like several minutes, I watched him struggle to keep his foothold; and I knew at all costs he could not wrestle the knife free. Oddly, the sheer might of his grasp and his masochistic tug o' war with the knife's blade seemed to aid my endeavor. Without much warning, his upper body began to shift as his feet awkwardly shifted beneath him. Violently he fell to the floor, both knees simultaneously smacking the hard surface of the slick bathroom floor. A deafening crack followed as his knees met the unforgiving surface, 'Crackkk! Crackkkkk!'. Then in what seemed like a millisecond, he had pulled himself to his feet by the surface of the blade. He jolted upward miraculously regaining his foothold on the blood drenched bathmat.

Then with every last ounce of might I had within my upper body, I struggled to pull his body toward mine. Unknowingly, a steady stream of tears had begun to flow down my cheeks and onto my moist breasts. My body seemed to violently shake with either fury or determination. It was a sensation I will never fully understand, but I knew it was a fight I could not lose despite how vulnerable I appeared. With both my arms and upper body trembling with exhaustion, I continued to thrust myself backward against the force of his grip. Somehow, I had managed to pull him closer despite the consuming weariness I felt in all my muscles and joints. I think what I felt was a mix of exhaustion and pure adrenaline coursing through every ounce of blood.

To my surprise, at that moment I was struck with an unfathomable courage, my voice rendered a wavering inflection as my eyes stared directly into his.

My face merely inches from his own, when I said, “You were never the sheriff in town, you were never anything but a coward. Payback is a stone cold bitch and she's here to collect.”

My words seemed to incense him when he released one hand and frantically swung his fist toward my left temple; all futile attempts that appeared to leave him drained as his breaths swiftly became hastened. I cocked my head backwards to avoid his swings, making sure never to release my grip.

I can only imagine what happened next to be a surge of unmitigated madness masked with surreal joy. I craned my head backward and bellowed out laughter that seemed to erupt from the very tips of my toes. I continued to pull him toward me and then for reasons I cannot explain, during a completely unreasonable moment, I closed my eyes.

With my eyes tightly clasped, I saw in my mind's eye, an image of my Grandfather, Antonio; I hadn't seen him since he passed, nearly ten years ago. Yet, he was an image that appeared so real to me that day, one that seemed I could smell and touch. As he drew closer to me, I could see the worn pattern of his tweed jacket, the hard lines of his face and the smell of his sweet pipe tobacco that wafted by on a subtle breeze. He approached me with his hand outreached and gently placed it on mine.

Where I stood was a serene meadow on what seemed like a spring day; like something out of a magazine. I didn't recognize the place, but for the time I felt safe. When he approached he sat with me on a tree stump amongst a field of lavender and grain, a billowing willow tree sat on the horizon about a hundred feet to our left. We sat peacefully for a few moments. Today I cannot recall what it was we spoke of but I remember watching him smile so wide, his crow's feet nearly touched the tips of his ears. I simply kissed the hand he placed on mine, and we sat and enjoyed the intoxicating smells of lavender and berry.

Abruptly, there was a shift in the air, any sound that may have naturally occurred in such a place was hushed by a crescendo of moans that seemed to be drawing near and then grew to a deafening growl. I saw the worry in my grandfather's eyes, and instantly his eyes and touch made me feel like a small child as we embraced. The sound emanated from the horizon, where the beautiful billowing willow tree stood serenading our scenery. Sadly its beauty was slowly being consumed by a foreboding cloud, right before our eyes... until there was nothing left but a black void.

The darkness grew quickly and continued to grow, drawing closer to where we sat as lines of thick charcoal infiltrated the field's grain. The black melted along the horizon like thick wax streaming along a slanted picture frame; until we could only see hints of bright gold where the grain once was.

A deep unsettling sound then averted our eyes to the sky as a flock of birds emerged from where the willow tree once sat. As they flew overhead, their wings harmonized an ominous tone, 'Woooooosh Woooooooosh Woooooooosh'. As their wings cut through the clear blue sky, instantly their path turned a swampy grey. In a state of disbelief, again we both watched the gaping blackness consume the hillside.

He looked at me and said, “Mira, do you see that stream just beyond the hill?”

He pointed to a stream beyond a long decrepit stone wall that was speckled with glistening flecks of slate; a stone wall that seemed to dissect the land from a pasture of green hills with a mirror like stream running through it that reflected the midday sun.

Despite how he insisted, I found it harder to concentrate on anything but the looming blackness that drew closer as we spoke. He grabbed both of my arms and looked me in the eyes as I simply stared back at him in disbelief. With a distinct degree of urgency he shook me to awaken me from my trance. It seemed so real, those images, and the blackness on the horizon left me feeling helpless. 

 

With no response from me, he began to raise his voice when he said, “Now you listen to me and answer me when I ask you something, girl! Do you see that stream beyond the wall?”

The wind blew harder, stray debris and lumps of grass began to kick up and swirl madly until they snapped in our faces, making the conditions even harder to ignore.

He continued to insist, “DO YOU HEAR ME?!”

I finally replied, “Yes, grandpa yes! I hear you Jesus Christ! What is it already?!”

He scolded me for taking the Lord's name in vain and then lifted his boney liver spotted hand to point where the blackness grew.

He said, “Never mind that stream for a moment, we've wasted too much time. You see that evil over there on the hill? It's only there if you want it to be. It's only there because that's what you want to see, Mira. Stop this now, be brave!”

I nodded and he continued, “God showed you this place today, not me. I believe he wants you to see and feel what peace you can and should have. I have no regrets but for wishing I had more moments to spare; like right now. Don't live with regrets, Mira. It's time for you to go and move on from this.”

I replied, “I know grandpa, I'm just scared. What happens if I fail? I'm afraid of failing this and then I fail my children, I can't go to prison over this!”

He shook my body, when he grappled with my trembling arms then looked me in the eyes when he shouted, “NOW STOP THIS! YOU CAN DO THIS! YOU MUST DO THIS!”

I began to assure him, “Ok, I know, you're right...”

He interrupted, “Shutup and listen, girl. I told you we don't have much time, and I got more to say!”

So I did, finally I just listened, and momentarily the growls seemed to cease. I finally stood and listened, as I took in the sweet berry scented tobacco that clung to the air around us; a smell I remembered from childhood. A smell that always reminded me of him when I was lucky enough to enjoy the warmth of its familiarity.

He said, “Now Mira, you see that stream beyond the rocks?”

Finally, I replied, “Yes, Grandpa, I see it.”

The he said through a smile and slight chuckle as he turned his eyes toward the stream, “That's where I spend most of my days, and fish for as long as I please. That's where I sit for hours remembering the days with my family, our family, wishing I had enjoyed every moment I was granted; only a hundred times more. If that's even possible, because I loved my life. We made great stories together. Make great stories now, Mira. Let this go.”

He continued with a reassuring tone, “Get rid of the evil, Mira. You will not regret it, and someday...when you need me, I will be right there, by the river. But for now, you finish this. Be a brave girl.”

He released my arms and nodded at me with approval, and that's when I turned to walk from him. As I walked away, I turned back to look at him just one more time. I smiled at him as he stood in that field with a trailing blackness behind him; briefly he waved me on and then folded his arms gently rubbing the scuffed leather patches on the elbows of his worn suit coat. As I continued to walk down the meadow's path, wisps of long grass and grain tickled my ankles. It was then I felt as though I left behind all guilt and regret; I left it behind in that meadow along with the murky gaping void.

Abruptly, with my next step, it felt as though the birds above had plummeted from the sky when I was sheathed amongst their unsettling familiar sound I heard moments before, 'Wooooooosh! Wooooooosh! Woooooooooooooooosh!'. I felt like I was falling when my eyes fell blank and the distant growls dissipated into a swirling breeze. Swiftly, as though not a second had passed, there I stood... in my bathroom, struggling with that knife. In fact, my eyes were still set on the ceiling above.

Quickly, I snapped my head down to gain my bearings, and stared directly at my husband and grunted as I pulled his body toward mine with the knife's slippery grip. 

 

Desperately, I struggled to bring his body closer to mine. As I pulled the louder I groaned, 'Arrrrrr, Ahhhhhhhhh, Arrahhhhhh, Ahhhhhhhhhhh!'

My feet began to slip when the slick underside of the bathmat began to shift against the damp floor. Yet, I continued to insist and pulled him closer as his thick maroon blood drenched the rug beneath. An earthy smell of sweat and blood clung to the moist air that beaded along my arms and chest. I knew I had pulled him as close as he would come, and between us the bathroom's thick fog had dissipated only briefly; enough for me to look straight through him and absorbed trembling fear through his grasp.

I managed to pull him a few inches closer when I whispered in his ear, “And now it's time for you to go.”

Then I released the knife's grip.

I watched as he plummeted backwards with great force, head first on the wall across from the bathroom door. His relentless fortitude in grasping for that knife's edge aided his ultimate loss. Then I stood on the blood drenched bath mat, with dried blood spatter on my shins and ankles staring over at his slouched frame. As the moist bathroom fog continued to lift from the space between us, I drew closer to study his helpless state. His head was slouched forward onto his chest and the very tip of his inadequate penis peered up at me, like a very sad little face.

Standing over him, I lurched my hand upward and swiftly brought it down slapping him across the face leaving a distinct red mark in the shape of my fingers and palm. I laughed at the sound and the sight of the impression on his cheek. Then I pried the knife's blade from his ground chuck palms, and washed it clean of blood under the running shower head. With my blade clean I walked back over to Alex and placed its shiny edge just beneath his nose, when an opaque steam spread along the blade's surface. Of course he was still alive, surely a little bump to the head wasn't going to rid me of my monster.

Completely exhausted I reluctantly dropped the knife to my feet. I could have easily slit his throat as he laid there defenseless, but I felt there was no sport in that. I yearned to watch the last drop of life funnel through his eyes. Much like droplets of water cling to a spider's intricately woven web, then slowly dissipate till there is nothing left but white. Truly, now it was only the anticipation that kept the task exciting. It was my plan to let him rest, because in the morning we would spend more time together.

I leaned down far enough to kiss the blistering palm mark on his face, when I said, “Tomorrow we will have our own secret accord, darling. But I'll make it look like an accident. You rest up, sweetheart. ”

With what seemed like a hastened jolt to shake the pain from his heavy eyes, Alex awoke from unconsciousness at approximately 0600 hours. Alex stiffened his body amongst a downy comforter encased with a blood encrusted thick black refuse bag. Frantically, he looked down at the moistened bloody bag that clung to his skin. When he attempted to lunge forward the clang of handcuffs rattled against the headboard's frame and lightly chaffed his fattened wrist. With his free hand he grasped what little hair remained along his receding hair line desperately scanning the room.

I sat in the far corner of the room, far enough out of his reach and barely within his view. He continued to struggle, attempting to release his arm as he winced in pain. While he was unconscious, I had dressed the deep wounds on his hands, but surely the pain was overwhelming as he had lost considerable blood. Then He turned his free palm toward his face and brought the gauze covered wound to his mouth and clenched a free strand with his teeth, in an attempt to expose his wounded hand.

Instantly he froze when I said, “I wouldn't take that off if I were you. It's a pretty deep cut, and really you should have stitches. The dried blood and bandage is the only thing stopping the blood flow...well, for now. You really messed up your hands, moron.”

He jerked his head to the corner of the room where I sat, with his right eye peering as far as it could without bulging from his skull. As he tried to lunge forward, a metallic thunder caught him when the chains quickly snapped him back to where he sat. 

Chapter 5 - Save the Date.

 

“It is the same thing: killing, dying, it is the same thing: one is just as alone in each. He is lucky, he will only die once. As for me, for ten days I have been killing him at every minute.” - Jean Paul Sartre

That morning I sat with Gina swathed amongst a mist of misery, as she recounted the dreary details. While she described the assault, I jotted down each sentence nearly ripping the paper with the tip of my pen. I remember feeling out of my mind with anger, mostly for the fact that I had been experiencing the very same shit at home. But for the fact that Gina had not reached my same boiling point. I was the ticking time bomb that had already gone off. Where my collateral damage merely laid in wait.

When I wrapped things up with Gina I called out to Jay, once he came into the apartment I approached him and whispered in his ear, “She says he hit her, admits he put those marks on her arm and face, signed the statement too. Looks like this is gonna happen. You wanna go break the news?”

Once Jay approached Ron, he replied with the anticipated response, “No, this is bullshit! She doesn't want me to be arrested! Go ask her, she doesn't want it this way! I'm sure of it!”

As Jay began to grab Ron's right hand to put him in cuffs, Ron defiantly pulled away. The fortitude of Ron's pitiful physical challenge matched his pitiful stature, and only seconds passed until Jay's patience wore thin. Jay slammed Ron to the floor pinning his meager frame to the shoddy filth laden carpet as Ron's left cheek smashed against the baseboard of the hallway. The commotion swiftly serrated what shred of serenity remained in those dimly lit hallways. The hastened turbulence careened through the hallway like a bulldozer, shaking the building to its very core.

Jay's thick stodgy knee pinned Ron to the floor as he cuffed him. That day Ron laid in the hallway of his decrepit castle blubbering like a little girl. It was a sight to see...indeed. During our ride to the station, Ron muttered his useless pleas of innocence. Booze does brings out the best in people; sometimes emotional hogwash. Sometimes... if you're lucky, you'll get a peek at their innermost sissy pants. This was always enjoyable, especially when countering with the likes of Ron Steenley. There seemed to be a use for these kind after all...entertainment. 

 

While Jay endured the booking process with Ron, I granted myself a few moments of solitude at my desk under the guise of drafting incident reports. Truth is, I was in dire need of aspirin, as my earlier dosage had worn off and a headache was slowly creeping in. Jay and I shared a desk, but I noticed that my assigned voicemail was blinking. I had shut off my blackberry for the day, and of course as expected, a message from Alex loomed behind that red blinking dot. -I detested his loathsome predictability-

Reluctantly I hit the button only to hear his caustic voice resonate through my head, “Hey, hunny it's me, I just wanted to call and let you know that I heard from this guy, Carl, he works at HP. Anyway, he called to tell me I got the job I interviewed for last week. He said I could start next week, Monday morning. So I want to go out for dinner tonight to celebrate! Maybe you can wear that black dress you wore to dinner on our anniversary? I love that dress.”

Notice the complete omission of an apology? I hadn't expected one, and it wouldn't have mattered. Even when he offered an apology it was always followed by a caveat, 'I'm sorry, but you shouldn't have done....'. Who could be bothered with such utter crap? I saw no justice in his actions, and neither would anyone else if they had known what happened behind our walls. Frankly, If he had told me the Queen stopped by to use our toilet, I would have sooner bought that over an apology from his hateful lips. It was no matter, the only thing I wanted from him those days was an obituary with his name on it.

Now I had the remainder of the day to dream up reasonable excuses as to why I was turning down his gracious dinner invite; for which I would have undoubtedly paid. By nightfall my stomach was mangled with anxious knots; rendering myself a rather poor dinner companion. At the time, I would have preferred the company of a stinky hobo, rather than enduring the agonizing tales of Alex.

As I later discovered, his new job was merely a glorified shipping position with a smattering of IT knowledge. For a few short weeks, he would call himself an “IT organizational tech”. His detestable existence was only justified amidst the the cloud of his sociopathic mind when showered with recognition for a mediocre job well done. 'Hey look at my piece of shit job! I'm important! Look at me!' He was plagued with the most abhorrent case of LAM syndrome -a.k.a.: look at me syndrome- This particular affliction seemed to plague him worst than an army of toddlers.

When I opened my front door that night, there Alex stood at the top of our stairs, ready for our “date”; all five foot five of him. He was sporting his super fly button down shirt and a pair of tan jeans (circa 1992). Just when you thought there was no end in sight for the comic relief...enter stage right with one brown leather bomber jacket. The only thing that could have topped this dreadful fashion statement was a “members only” jacket. -surely he had one of those stashed away-

On his feet were ankle high leather boots with a one and a half inch heel. Along with his crippling case of OCD, he could never bring himself to throw away the most useless of trash. These particular boots had likely seen the streets of Boston since Reagan was in office. In fact, one day I caught him shamelessly scribbling black sharpie marker on the backside of a boot. I called these bad boys his 'man heels', they would make him appear just a bit taller than me; so as not to bruise his effeminate man boy ego.

The qualities one could lend to his Napoleanesque type traits, were his stature that matched the pathetic length and girth of his stubby little penis. In fact, our first time together I wasn't sure if he had penetrated me or poked me beneath the covers with a vienna sausage.

On our first date, I thought he was kinda cute; even though he carried on about himself nearly the entire evening. When he asked to go dutch treat he conveniently miscalculated his share for the three gin and tonics he threw done his gullet. Admittedly, he was fairly charming at first. I tried to look beyond the bad.

We were a rather odd couple, and left most people baffled scratching their heads in utter amazement. Alex would pride himself on being a “ladies man”, but in all likelihood the women that threw themselves at him were either drunk or mentally challenged. To date I'm still trying to figure out what this said about me, but at one point in time I allowed myself to somehow be charmed. That ship had long since sailed. In fact, it had capsized....with no lifeboats to speak of.

After a few short months of dating, he proposed insisting on a quick marriage. Now when I reflect upon that time, I believe he rushed the marriage as he could no longer hold back the ugliness that lurked inside. The one that most of us knew and despised. The ugly I came to know in time. Coincidentally, at his wake only two of his siblings showed -he had eleven-. It was a rainy day and the maple trees that hovered overhead sprinkled more tears from their leaves than any eye had shed that day. The only tears were mine... and were manufactured for effect. His children came bearing cold hugs and shallow sentiments.

In the beginning, for Alex and I, everything was fairly peachy keen. Until he slowly unveiled the monster inside. Once the children and I were invited to live in “his home”, a calculated list of do's and dont's were presented to us. Albeit not a written list, but a list that would eventually reveal itself with time. We were merely guests in his home. Guests that couldn't step or play on his grass. Guests that had to wipe themselves down with an assigned towel before stepping onto his bathmat. Guests that had to endure slaps and shoves should the remote turn up missing.

Now Alex was on borrowed time. He would continue to try and salvage the laughable union we shared. Much like tonight's request to go out for dinner. Too little too late. Nothing could save this asshole now. Not a damn thing.

That night as he stood there eagerly awaiting our departure for dinner, he approached me with a fake grin and exclaimed, “Honey, I got a job! I got it! Wahoo!” 

 

He embraced me with his half assed hug and then pecked my cheek with his tightly pursed lips. It was the kind of kiss you give your great aunt or grandmother when you saw them every third year for Easter. His sickening kisses were yet another reminder of our situation; which was merely a convenience that kept him out off the streets when he fucked up gainful employment. When this happened, I would be there to hold down the fort; a much needed yet unwanted houseguest. Soon enough he wouldn't have to concern himself with bills or the like. Soon enough his foremost concern would certainly be the nine inch buck knife I planned to lunge through the back of his head. Thankfully, the last woeful concern to plague his simple mind.

When he stepped back and looked at me, my face surely relayed my restrained enthusiasm. It was a long day, I was off my game and I just didn't have it in me.

He stood back and looked at me saying, “What's the matter? Aren't you happy for me? You still want to go out for dinner with us tonight, right?”

I replied, “I'm sorry Alex, I'm happy for you I am just so tired after work today. Can we just schedule this for another night? This weekend my mom can take the boys and we can go out, just you and I. We can go to a nicer place. You know, like that nice Italian restaurant you like. How's that sound?”

No sooner had I spoken these words, within a nanosecond his face blossomed like a freshly steamed radish. His complexion would change drastically whenever his temper was about to boil over. This effect made for a rather accurate asshole barometer. You could generally predict when dread was forthcoming, as his complexion would gleam with the likes of Chernobyl.

What came next was one of his favorite side show acts, what I came to know as the “wedding ring toss”. All he needed now was a super mini-sized car so he could join the circus with a myriad of midgets adorning their best clown like attire. This particular side show, as he had a few, consisted of him ripping his wedding ring from the grips of his bulging finger fat and then tossing it wherever it may land. This charade was always accompanied with a fresh bouquet of profanity clinging to the air. After he wrestled the ring from his finger he sent it sailing, as it ricocheted directly up and pinged off his eyebrow...much like a foul ball -only more entertaining-.

After his rousing display of infancy he stormed off to his office and yelled, “You are so selfish! You knew how much I was looking forward to this! I was looking forward to this all day, and all you can do is think of your goddamned self! God, I am so sick and tired of your bullshit! Don't come talk to me, just leave me the fuck alone! You useless bitch!”

I daydreamed about him losing his foolish ring. He operated under the misguided impression that I continued to wear mine as a symbol of allegiance to delusional dictatorship. He was mistaken, I only continued wear it so as not to arouse suspicion when I finally him released him from the clutches of his miserable existence. I had considered baking his ring in a cake, and then gleefully watch as he choked on the foolish thing. I had decided against it, since Saint Peter would most assuredly scratch my name from his blessed list.

More often than I care to admit, when I came home to this shit, I wanted so badly to pick up the phone and vent to mom and friends. But I squelched this desire and internalized every heaping dose of crap he served up. As most women would surely attest, internalizing all of these feelings made for one nasty mess to eventually clean; for now, I swept it under the rug. Now my mess had become an unsightly carpet covered white elephant planted square in the center of my home.

That night Alex wouldn't receive any complaints from me as to his request for silence. Actually, I rather enjoyed not sitting across from him that night, affecting my engagement with the crap that dribbled from his mouth. I was happy to pay the price for a quiet night at home... or what I had thought was going to be a quiet night at home. I had predicted a little game of “wedding ring toss” but not that evening's main attraction.

That night once my boys were tucked in bed, I went downstairs to our room where Alex loomed with a beer in hand and his back squarely against our headboard. He sat stoic and unmoved and continued to dismiss my presence altogether, as I crossed the room to my bureau. His festering anger was so thick, it was as though I was enveloped with a sheath of rage as it dripped from our maroon walls. For the moment he seemed unmoved by my presence, but just beneath the surface lurked a maelstrom of obscenities.

I wasn't sure what I was in for that evening, but I knew I had to sleep in that bed to avoid another all night brawl. As I pulled my shirt overhead to change into my pajamas, a smattering of bruises were revealed just above my elbow. I had forgotten about these particular war wounds of sorts, but now with their ripening yellowish hue...they were hard to miss. Briefly, I ran my hand down the side of my arm to feel the subtle bumps that were raised just beneath my multi-colored skin.

For a fleeting moment, I could feel his eyes on me. Then quickly his eyes averted toward the TV screen as he raised his beer to his lips. He always pretended they weren't there, the bruises that is, and if the were, they would always somehow be my fault.

After about ten minutes of welcomed silence he asked me, “So, are you just going to sit there and ignore me all night?”

With Alex I always felt as though I had spiraled back in time to seventh grade. There was no accounting for maturity with this man. His outward appearance was not foretelling of the actual paucity of common sense he accumulated throughout the years. It was clear, he never learned when to leave well enough alone.

As I sat on the foot of our bed slipping socks from my feet I replied, “I just don't have anything to talk about, and I have a long day ahead of me tomorrow so I would just rather relax and talk about this later.”

He replied, “Doesn't it bother you that we don't talk anymore and that you go around ignoring me all the time? I mean what is your issue? You used to want to talk about it when we fought and now all you do is avoid me?”

The first thought that entered my mind, 'it's because I hate your filthy rotten guts.'

Of course, like always, what I wanted to say, was exactly what I couldn't say.

I quickly conjured up something of substance in an effort to ward him off, “It's not that I don't care, Alex. I just don't want to talk tonight, ok? Can we just talk about this later, please?”

Immediately after my response he stood to his feet and ripped the blanket from his body to the floor, as he stood in the middle of the room purposely obstructing my view of the TV...seething with clenched teeth. Here we go, I was in for it tonight.

It didn't matter that my children were sleeping, his nut had finally cracked, and then came the yelling, “You just want to go to sleep?! Don't you ever think of how I am feeling?! You know I have been depressed and you refuse to read those articles I printed about depression! You refuse to go back to counseling with me! You refuse to go to dinner with me and refuse to talk to me when I ask?! What the fuck is going on with you?! You aren't going to keep sweeping this under the rug and ignoring me! What are you cheating on me?! What is going on, Mira? Unless you talk to me right fucking now you aren't getting a wink of sleep! I will make sure of it. I will make your night hell, like I did last night!”

With the shred of gumption that remained in my quickly wilting spirit, I made my way to the bathroom for refuge. I locked the door hoping for peaceful solitude in the one place where one would should reasonably expect. Quickly, I engaged the lock behind me with trembling hands and tried to soothe my contorted tummy. Sadness, Fear and loathing consumed me, it overwhelmed me daily, nightly and by the second more and more as the days had passed. I hadn't expected tears to flow...yet they had. They spattered onto the flat surface of my blackberry clutched in my hands, and then slid onto my cool shivering knees. Restraining muffled sobs only further rendered my body aching with what seemed like a crippling angst.

Before I had a chance to soothe myself with a spell of mind numbing web browsing on my blackberry, he startled me as he rapidly pounded his fist against the door jarring its entire frame.

Once I collected myself I replied with a cool refrain, “Please just leave me alone, I just want to be left alone.”

In his unrelenting quest to antagonize me, he continued with the berating and profanity. That's when my youngest son, Anthony, came out of his room and asked, “What's wrong?”

To which Alex replied “Get your ass back in bed, and mind his own damn business!”

Such a swell guy. Unfortunately, regret and shame was the expensive price I now paid.

I remember sitting there that night with my ass cheeks pressed against my cool wooden toilet seat cover, silently praying for what seemed like hours that he would just let me be. Then suddenly a clamorous bombardment of his fists pounding on the surface of the door sent my heart palpitating so loud that its beat became the only thing I could hear amidst my terror filled mind.

For a fleeting moment once the pounding ceased, I felt like I could breath again, as I though I had been breathing through a thick wool sheet. Then the sharp wooden crackle of the door's frame unexpectedly collided with the solitude that was my space. Where I thought I had solace had quickly become the stomping ground for his unrelenting rage; as the door suddenly careened from its hinge sending shards of wood toward me, and with a impetuous slam it smashed against our tiled floor. With intent force he charged toward me as he plunged his feet against the door's surface sending a deep crack down its center splitting it in two. Within seconds I was dangling from his fist as he pinned my vulnerable frame against our bathroom wall.

Instantly he rendered me gasping for air, with his hands grasped tightly around my neck like a tautly strung leather brace. With my body pinned against the wall, he shoved his body against mine and placed the bridge of his nose directly on mine.

A scented warm rush of hops and weed hit my face along with random spurts of frothy spit as he screamed in my face, “You think you are going to put me through this? You're not going to do this, you bitch! You are my wife! This is not ending with divorce! I waited years to remarry and this isn't going to happen like you want! I will fight you to the end and make your life hell! So you better straighten your ass out and change your fucking attitude, because I have had enough of your shit! Don't play fuck fuck with me because I will make your life a living hell!! You got that, bitch?! Got it?”

At that moment despite my state of near unconsciousness, he expected me to promptly answer. Amidst a cloud of an unmitigated rage, the reality of the situation at hand seemed to allude him; as though we were having an ordinary conversation and I was expected to immediately reply. As he continued to ask through tightly clenched teeth, “Huh, well do you get it? Do you fucking get it or not?! Answer me!?”

That night I remember thinking, while pinned against my wall wearing my best Wal-Mart pink laced jammies, that I was going to die that night. That I was going to die just a foot above my toilet. Toiling with regret for not killing him first. I remember thinking how much my kids would hurt, how my mother would cry; and as I peered into his widened eyes filled with hate, everything began to fade. Everything was was on mute as a legion of black dots began to infiltrate my eyes.

Despite his being a raging sociopath, a sudden stroke of conscience compelled him to release his grip from my neck. Too little too late, and apparently he didn't realize that by then, I had been rendered unconscious. Once he released me, my body abruptly fell as my forehead cracked the back of the toilet. Come to find out I had laid there for three hours, while he desperately tried to revive my consciousness. That stupid son of a bitch could have killed me that night.

Hours later I awoke with a sore throat and an indescribable headache. Once I finally sat up the first thing I saw was Alex crouched over me as he leaned forward and tried to caress my face with his hand. Instinctively I shied away. Once a sharp sting pierced my forehead, I lifted my hand to discover the culprit, my fingers grazed a shard of porcelain that had lodged itself in my now blood encrusted eyebrow. I sat on the floor trying to collect myself. Then it occurred to me, 'Why hadn't he called for help? Would he have sooner let me die than call for help? Sick bastard'

I recoiled from him on the cool tile floor and brought my knees up to my chest as I wrapped my arms around them. I sat staring at him in amazement as he began to sob, carrying on about how sorry he was and about how it would never happen again. I wasn't really listening, in fact all I clearly remember was thinking about how he could have killed me. He could have killed me next to the damn toilet! But most importantly what I remember that night was a strange sense of elation wash over me as a cool shiver ran through me. The irony of my happiness was that I knew this was the last time. The last time he would ever do this to me or anyone else.

When I was finally able to speak my voice rendered a scratchy tone. In order to fend off any further attacks I hastily rendered a nearly inaudible plea, “Ok, Ok, you got it, Alex. You know what, don't worry about it, this will all get better; I promise. I will go back to counseling with you and read the articles you gave me. I will try harder. Can we just please go to bed now.”

He sat with me on the floor, and cupped his face in his hands.

As he quickly conjured up a batch of fake tears he looked up at me and said, “That's all I want. I just want this to be better. I don't want to lose you. Don't make me mad like this anymore. It just isn't worth it, hunny. You know what I mean?”

I couldn't believe how this man's mind worked. How fucked up he truly was. That he had expected this to continue... forever.

When he finally helped me up from the floor, I made my way to our bedroom where I would curl up and pray that this was all a bad dream, and that he would quietly die in his sleep. Forever dissipating into the realm of to be forgotten by all, much like a bad dream, and then to resume life as it should be. I had said that prayer for many nights, for so long I couldn't tell you when I had begun. God never answered my prayers, I figure this was his way of making me stronger...forcing me to take care of him on my own. 

 

I now knew this was a journey I must make on my own.